


The Tree, a Metaphor

by dornfelder



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magic Revealed, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tree. Magic. Catharsis. A tree, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tree, a Metaphor

**  
The Tree, a Metaphor   
**

  
“What was that?”

“Er -” Merlin takes a careful step back. “Nothing?” he tries, knowing fully well it won't work.

“The branch – the tree – it just...”

“Yeah,well?”

Arthur's eyes narrow down. “It moved!” he says, accusingly.

Merlin coughs. “It was... the wind?”

“Wind? What wind, Merlin?”

It's a hot summer afternoon, and the only things moving are a couple of lazy bees. And, of course, the two of them, stumbling through the forest like the morons they are. Getting lost on a hunt hasn't happened to them for a couple of months now. Getting lost on a hunt because Arthur insisted on following a hardly visible trail on parched ground – a trail that Merlin's sure never existed in the first place – has never happened before, but Merlin knows better than to point it out to a crown prince who's already in a bad temper. Anyway, there's been no breeze for the last few hours, hot air surrounding them like a cocoon.

“Maybe it simply broke”, Merlin suggests. “Stranger things have happened before.”

Arthur shoots him a glare, standing with his arms crossed at his chest, alternately watching the tree and Merlin, who awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. After all this time, one should think Merlin would have excuses handy for cases like these, but there's no explanation he can come up with right now.

“So the branch broke, all by itself, right in time so I wouldn't bump against it?”

Merlin really, really regrets using his magic - or his magic using him, which is more like it - just so that Arthur didn't get skewered by a protruding, splintered tree limb that was unlikely to cause any serious damage anyway. He honestly doesn't know why he did it. Arthur's still wearing his hunting gear, thick, hardened leather that couldn't possibly be pierced by a piece of brittle wood.

It's not the first time something like this happened. For the last few months, Merlin's magic has been off somehow, working on its own volition to prevent Arthur from getting hurt. Merlin's a little frustrated because of it. Actually, he's thoroughly annoyed with his magic – quite a ridiculous notion, admittedly – but he simply doesn't get why it acts like that all of a sudden. It's not as if he minded Arthur tripping over rocks on occasion, or running into a tree now and then. Arthur throws things at Merlin on a daily basis. The prat could use a little payback. If Arthur's own carelessness leads to an embarrassing plunge for once, maybe it'll teach him not to taunt Merlin whenever he drops something or stumbles over a bucket full of water, soaking himself and the floor. His magic obviously disagrees. Not only has it started acting on its own, it even refuses to let Merlin take revenge on Arthur, the only way he's managed to get even with him before.

Merlin clears his throat, realising he's waited too long to give a reply. “Maybe... the tree likes you?”

“The tree – the tree _likes me_?” Arthur repeats with a downright stupid expression, frown as deep as a moat, lips slightly parted.

They stare at each other, at a loss for words. Merlin swallows nervously. Arthur closes and opens his mouth a few times, looking like a fish.

“Yeah, well, maybe...” Merlin tries, after a few awkward moments.

“Merlin, I think my father might be right, talking about your grave mental affliction”, Arthur says at the same time.

Merlin takes a deep breath. Seems like he's averted another almost-disaster. Somehow. “It's the heat”, he replies, trying not to let his relief show.

“The heat”, Arthur repeats, flatly, shaking his head. “Right. I think we better head back. It's unlikely we'll find the slot again anytime soon.” He throws one final, sceptical glance at the branch in question - severed from the trunk by a smooth, straight cut - then turns around, facing Merlin, and takes a step in his direction.

Merlin sees it happen, slow-motion, Arthur tripping about the splintered end of the branch, going down headlong. Before he can even think about stopping time – nothing easier than than, he's done it so many times its neither a novelty nor a challenge anymore – his magic once more acts by itself, transforming the rocky, dusty, _hard_ surface to a soft, green carpet of moss and flowers. Even if Merlin knew how to reign in his own magic when it starts acting _incredibly stupid_ , there wouldn't be enough time left to change the current events, or the fact that Arthur is right in front of him the moment his eyes flash gold. __

_So that's it_ , Merlin realises, numb with shock, standing motionless while Arthu falls down on a bed of lush plant life. Not even with the most determined attempt of denial will Arthur be able to misinterpret what just happened. Not even with the canniest subterfuge will Merlin be able to talk himself out of this.

Arthur gets to his feet, slowly. He stares at Merlin, but he's not drawing his sword or knocking Merlin out with a brutal blow of his fist. Yet. He's looking at him, eyes wide and stunned.

“Arthur”, Merlin says, helplessly. He's standing there, dumbly waiting for Arthur to _say something_. To do anything.

He ought to run away.

 _Run away._

Leave Camelot. Gaius, Gwen, Gwaine and Lancelot. His friends.

Over the course of three years, Merlin's had enough time to think about what to do in a situation like this. _Use magic to get away. Go back home, make sure your mother is safe. Go into hiding, somewhere, not in Ealdor._

Run away.

Leave Camelot. Leave Arthur.

His throat is dry. There's nothing he can say to justify himself, even if he could get the words out. _It's all for you,_ Merlin thinks. _It's all for you, all that I am, all I ever did. I'd never betray you._

He falls to his knees in front of Arthur, looking up at him, taking in the tense frame, the blue eyes, unblinking, wide open. Merlin surrenders, without a word, accepting the moment of truth for what it is. Everything comes to a halt, the world itself holding its breath, waiting, like Merlin, for a decision that's no longer his to make. With clarity comes peace. Merlin bows his head, not in shame, but in acknowledgement.

An eternity passes by, world and destiny in balance - at a crossroads.

Arthur moves.

Merlin holds his breath.

A firm touch to his shoulder, a strong, callused hand cupping his face, lifting his chin, thumb stroking over his cheekbone.

“So the tree likes me?” Arthur says, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Merlin exhales heavily. He knows he's grinning like a loon all of a sudden, and doesn't care. “It just might.”

They stare at each other. Arthur's expression is a little dazed, as if he can't believe what's happening. He doesn't withdraw his hand. Merlin leans into the caress, just a little, and Arthur's eyes darken.

That's it, absolutely, that's everything Merlin can reasonably be expected to bear and then some, and he gets up and closes the distance between them and kisses Arthur like he's wanted to forever, _forever_. Now he can, now he finally can, and enthusiasm will have to make up for any possible lack of experience on his side - not that Merlin's a bad kisser, but it's _Arthur_ he's kissing and it means so much more, it means everything. It means _I'm sorry_ and _I wanted to tell you a thousand times_ , and _I trust you_ and a whole bunch of other things Merlin can't really put into words, but putting them into kisses works just fine.

“I think,” Arthur pants, later, with his back against the sturdy trunk, head thrown back, gazing blankly up at the crown of leaves while Merlin's busy sucking bruises into his skin. Arthur's hands are clutching Merlin's shoulders, leaving bruises there, too, marks of possession. “I think, I might like the tree, too.”

“You don't say”, Merlin murmurs against the deliciously flushed skin of Arthur's neck, biting down hard, and it's pretty much the last coherent thing any of them voices for a while, apart from _Yes, more_ and _Please, now_ and _Don't ever stop_.

Afterwards, spread out on the moss-covered ground, naked, their clothes and gear scattered all around them, they doze off worn out and utterly sated, the tree's thick branches shielding them from the merciless afternoon sun. Merlin's finger trace lazy patterns all over Arthur's skin, promises written in love, sealed by magic. _High King. Destiny. Protection._

“You're mine”, Arthur whispers, almost inaudibly, close to Merlin's ear.

Under normal circumstances, Merlin would vigorously fight anyone asserting a claim on him - or his life, his freedom, his obedience - but as it is, his heartbeat quickens and his magic sings to him, exhilarated and euphoric in a way he's never experienced before.

Pretending to be unaffected, Merlin yawns. “You wish.”

Arthur laughs, openly, a sound of pure happiness. “It's true, admit it.”

 _Prat._ Merlin doesn't need to say it out loud. He simply snorts and rolls his eyes.

Arthur pulls him closer. “It's all right”, he mutters softly. “Goes both ways, you know?”

Merlins last conscious thought is that maybe this was the reason his magic went out of control: because deep down he knew it was time to admit the truth, but stubbornly refused to listen to himself. It doesn't really matter. In the end, everything turned out all right.

Arthur sighs, drifting off to sleep, breath warm and moist against Merlin's temple.

Maybe even a little better than all right, Merlin concedes, and lets his eyes fall shut.

  
~ fin ~


End file.
